was always like: o little or too much. ***
One day short time before going to work, it sounds the bell. Open and a worker (with the corresponding quarter of workers) that I said that was part of the crew that was working on the house next door. He tells me he finished the job and that they left over mixture and materials, offering to fix my little shabby village for a nominal fee. As of recent I also know that his modest sum is far from being the best price in the market, but "I explain I'm about to go to work, I will not be home and not the worst I have a handle on top, so I have to move from its offer. Then the worker begins to tell me that things are very ugly at home, that might make this little monkey will come as a respite which have so broken sidewalk can fine me (which is true because the IMM not afford the council tax and land tax, and can get you money because you do not fix it they should fix them) which is a professional and can do a very good laburo. I explain the truth: I have a weight on top and I will not be at the time you finish work for pay. Is sad, I say good, that if you can stop to charge the next morning it's okay, that does laburo. I said yes, he will consult with the colleague who was going to help.
Soon the doorbell rings again, is again the worker with another worker with helmet, I say that took the time and are so bare that if they leave now do not have another day for the bus back to collect the work and tell me if I can not leave the dough in the mini market across the street, they stop laburo and lift pass. I am thinking because that means I go to the ATM, about six blocks, and undertakes to return the mini kid who pay them, a series of operations that I have no time or inclination to do. But when in desperate insistence are beginning to cry again milonga which is a shame not to use the leftover material and explain how good it will be the path finally give in and tell them that's fine. I go to the cashier took the twine and leave it to skinny mini, telling him to set at least since the rates there have done something.
In late afternoon back home, passing through the mini and wonder if it has been to collect, which I confirm. I arrive at my door and see the part where it had lifted the floor tile is covered with (what seems) material and sand, and surrounded with some floor tile made by tent around the work so they would not walked. But it looks very good, bar a little sand on top to see how the meeting was the filling and more sand, wet, and down more sand, and not a cm. cubic material. I note as well that the hole is as ugly as before, only much more large as to build up several Baldoz under parody. Suppose to be could you be screwing with laughter, cheering as I embatataron and saved as half an hour of work and two buckets of mixture. What crooks, were more vivid than I, that "Goodnight" I am, how I'm going to trust ...
I realize that I can not even get angry but my opinion on some things is slightly altered. Finally, another piece of my tiny little continent of philanthropy that sinks without making much noise. ***
Saturday Show does an interview central Paul Tosquelles , mini-me substitute Gustavo Escanlar and partner in the new season Urban Area, the program decided to fill that void right-wing terrorist and melodramatic death left us Heber Pintos. In the interview Tosquelles makes clear that its dispute with Escanlar is that it had a cultural background and his political profile. He was then re-reviewing claims of culture: when asked what he thinks of Uruguayan film, which is like that ask me what I think of the local turf-Tosquelles uses his ineffable humor and answers "Is there Uruguayan film ? "and then answered himself by saying" Whisky seemed like a crap and 25 Watts infumable "reducing bitterness-almost-national film the two movies Stoll and Rebella . A response that will have delighted his boss Ignacio Álvarez, then Whisky view, stayed a week in their program buttoned Radio Sarandi loop saying how boring it had seemed (however it seemed much more fun and interesting suicide Juan Pablo Rebella to what we do is worry about vomiting yellow cover).
But hey, that's the opinion of a respected journalist as Tosquelles on the two best movies ever made in Uruguay, and tastes nothing is written. Tosquelles may not understand these movies, I for one, do not understand how someone who would kill a brother in a fight for football reasons I still like football, recognized as a fan and proudly proclaiming that with the caveat Well, since he stabbed his brother is not going to the court "because he gets nervous " (but making clear that cable has to keep seeing the bag). Tosquelles terrific, you're a light in the darkness, the sky is the limit.
*** Speaking of Tosquelles, I saw a television interview sweetened that made him president of ROU and answer my attention. Tosquelles asked what it was strange when president, he would have liked to do and now can not. Vázquez responds wistfully that he would have liked to go to a (relatively) important boxing match that was in those days, but that as president he could not.
I leave aside the ludicrous this man's paranoia and hypochondria as a coward who does not remember its predecessor, the infamous and hated Jorge Batlle - had no problem in attending the horse races at peak Maroñas irritation that had generated public. Or the abominable Julio Maria Sanguinetti continued pacing the Punta Carretas shopping without bodyguards days after approving the outrageous amnesty law, and I prefer to give the minimum margin of doubt that he could not go to see the fight because it is busy (like when he could not go to the inauguration of Evo Morales because he was too busy fishing), but something I grind: said boxing match?
Is it possible that the health crusader, defender of the fetuses, compulsive protector of the lungs of adults, is a boxing fan? What a sport that is milled to blows causing damage ranging from permanent deformation of the bridge of the nose up instant brain death? "Dr. Vazquez, who is erecting as vigilant protector of all our self-injurious actions, enjoy watching a boy, usually lower class, it causes Parkinson punches another in exchange for money? There's something there that I did not close, doctor.
Yo, I'm a bad man, I do enjoy watching two gladiators kill each other in a ring with the elegance and value of the set of gloves, but that's because at some point I realized that we all go to die and that hypochondria is a losing battle being waged against the freedom and beauty of the vital intensity. So I do I can enjoy this spectacle. A health police should give a little embarrassed to have fun with what, from their normally unsympathetic view, should be considered mere physical damage. Well, maybe it's because while they are demolishing each other, the boxers do not smoke. ***
saw for the third time and by chance, in the year to Psiconautas , banda noise of very low average age and who is moving to the jumps, do not look like the same band for almost quilombo amateur I saw six months ago and are learning to differentiate between noise and expressive nuance away from the mere bard. And one thing I find particularly interesting are beginning to write in English.
may seem an old prejudice psicobolche pre-globalization, but the bands written in pure English, something that is blight on the local underground, I have filled eggs. Do not give me the excuse that "the English sounds better." Cock sounds better, sounds less own and drive the cuckoo of having to sound like one, away from his own personality and providing a complete mimicry of the model chosen to mimic. I do not mind which one will eventually write a song in English because he began to compose and excuse or whatever, and many of my favorite Rock River Plate have been written in that language. But do not know anyone to write better English than Castilian, and do not know anyone in these latitudes, except Luca, I suppose, and Garza - who has said something interesting in English.
I recently learned that a well-known local pop band whose main virtue were some notable points naturally hedonistic and unpretentious poetry, he decided to record her new album entirely in English. Great, safe in England are desperate to hear a mimetic Uruguayan version of their music. And friend Jorge Drexler similar walks in rough terrain, apparently accompanied by some musicians Radiohead , in what may become the major cultural event of the popes of boredom.
If you have nothing to say, well then do not say anything, I listen to instrumental music more than sung, but I save the simulation of verbal expression and the abdication of the language. O sing a phonetic boludez, type 'I Zimbra' or something. After all we already know: when there is nothing left the old Dada. The
Psiconautas, they are also so young that can end inventing their own language, are trying things with a wonderful curiosity and it is bound to find a voice. But that voice will be, even partially, in Castilian or will not be interested.
(At one point, before the show, I go on stage and I see something amazing: these sons of bitches, which also produced an elaborate stage show clothes inside out and playing back, printed their playlists, which are even adorned with drawings. Guys, that is, how to say, a little French-style ...) ***
supplement What was for many years a semi-progressive small island in the sea conservative daily El Pais . Not exactly left-so help me God, but in roles of the left, something like the good cop in the repression of the newspaper behemoth. This was due in large part to its director, Leonardo Haberkorn , Which maintained a detached tone and care in the supplement, which only broke away with their publishers that they were wise or whimsical nonsense (as when insulted for free to all smokers), were always well written and argued, and also had the good habit in order to shut up once in a while the old dirty Jorge Batlle. Haberkorn
left the direction of What Happens just over a month, ceding the post to Antonio Alvarez, from the kidney of the house, ie El Pais (in the section "Company" to be exact), and one was left waiting to see if they noticed the changes. And yes, they note: less than a month, in the Lebanon conflict, the Que Pasa was dispatched to a violent unilateral cap that read "Hezbollah " written with characters that dripped blood, something very line with the editorial page of the newspaper containing the supplement. The penultimate result is a monograph on the baddest bad Fidel Castro, which seeks to address the most objective way possible. But there is no case, conditioned reflexes and in the editorial of Alvarez, who uses the term "murder" to describe the implementation of Ochoa on drug charges something with which I agree, kill someone to trade with fine chemicals is murder, but that's what I foresee Cuban law for that crime. This means that an execution is in any case. But leaving aside this subtlety is no other message is more explicit and reserve the back to give opinions on the old man's beard a peculiar character, former President Julio Maria Sanguinetti . Yes, I know that inside there is also some evidence of old Chifflet to balance, but is back cover and back cover Sanguinetti Sanguinetti. Under this standard if they make a monograph on abortion this is going to close with an opinion of Archbishop Cotugno and if they National one will end up on a column of Damiani.
In short, the period more or less objective, free and interesting Que Pasa was nice while it lasted. Maybe it's better than everything back to normal consistency. Wow that dogs and cats do make meow. ***
finally saw, with many years behind the monumental documentary Terry Zwigoff did-for more than a decade on his friend, the cartoonist Robert Crumb . I suppose many readers will already have seen and I can not say it's only one piece of pure and simple reality that are more authentic ever filmed, and a rare document of salvation through art, or monetary success, which is not precisely clear.
But once mastered the disruptive impact of this work I get on the web to confront critical views on it and I find the vast majority of the reviews cited in imdb buttoned at the same point: the debate deferred present in the film between the art critic Robert Hughes essayist and feminist Deirdre Inglés .
This argument makes some sense in the documentary and Inglés, despite the literal reading, it takes a certain advantage in banana Hughes, who compares to Crumb to Brueghel and other nonsense classic curator enthusiastic about a micro, but in any case is a minor aspect of the documentary. But almost all of the reviews I find on the web, mostly not written when the documentary was released (1994) but to review before their DVD release nearly ten years later they have to plant flag on the discussion and opened a huge umbrella speak well of Crumb, or simply to despise but claiming the film as a valuable document on sick people. And that makes me want to apply euthanasia particularly cruel to the idiots who write about film and art in the world and who think they may qualify someone like Robert Crumb's sick.
I'm from a generation that access to the work of cartoonists like Robert Crumb was partiucularmente difficult with the almost total absence of English-language editions and the practical impossibility of obtaining original editions. Crumb met with two volumes of "Underground Comix USA " English, published in full "pop" and the comic Iberian fever, which referred to "now I know, material of the first three or four numbers Zap Comix. And even with this partial approach, which actually was incomplete and did not even know the privileged place of Crumb-breaking work of the kind eyes. When years later Fierro published some of his later work ( 'The Man Who Loved Women ', etc.) confirmed that the power of the kind was an exceptional and unique within the comic format.
But what I'm getting is that Crumb's work is broad, very broad and has the rare quality of being very little mediated by the superego. That is, Crumb works with materials of interest and obsession in its raw state and non-evident to anyone who has read his work half-bullet has a definite social and political harangue about anything. Yes, of course especially in its earliest and most well-known works are full of spirit satirist and critic, most of the 60, to the U.S. and culture, but anyone who has followed up his most recent work can realize that the subsequent search for Crumb is so insular, so anti-social and so self-obsessed that qualify within patterns of misogyny, racism or pornography not have understood nothing, nothing at all. Are seeing a dragon and all you can talk about is whether it is edible or not.
But these measurement tools are the only ones who can handle without panicking the most current critical fools are the only ones who can understand. And it costs, because Crumb is able to draw a cartoon clearly racist content or misogynist side by side could be interpreted as racist or misogynist directly and another that deals with key issues in the discussion of racism and misogyny, but that does not stop at anything. What we do with Crumb? Well at least put your character artist for quotes and clarified that it is "controversial", "shocking" or "questionable", and appreciate Zwigoff's documentary without being much interested in the subject of your study without having to show appreciation "By God, that character as" sick. " When one begins to question someone like Robert Crumb, who has made the unclassifiable impropriety and ink drawings itself, for reasons of political correctness, is close to zero degree of thought.
" Er ... Ah ... I can not say if this is important, if it moves in any way or if this information with expression of some aspect of the human condition. I can not put into context, I can not define and I can not this stimulus empathize with any of my immediate experience, and worse, I can not identify with any of the characters but I know it's not right that someone draw felar becoming a father for the daughter! So he goes on the shelf ill . And that means I'm a critic. Come bésenme compass. " ***
Gap In the last week INAC (Instituto Nacional de Carnes) has published a full-page ad in full color. In the same you see a young lenses and writing in a PC tie next to a large library. The overlay of the photograph says: "If Uruguay stop selling meat, much suddenly disappear." After a comprehensive text explaining that the meat generates many jobs which people benefit, apparently, to justify the image, are using information technology. He ends by defining the meat as "country value."
Ok, one knows something about semiotics and advertising, at least enough to realize that what matters is the image and more readable sentence ("If the Uruguay left ...") and is quite obvious that advertising is making one of the most repeated refrains by livestock producers: we give food to the country. You have computers thanks to us.
The export of meat is undoubtedly the main source of income in Uruguay, and its outdated production system is not stabled, unless you are a vegetarian, a fairly natural, clean and even human beings to the exploitation of cattle. But his clear lead in the Uruguayan trade balance has made that livestock ranchers a class of unusual power and influence in the political system, getting that the tax burden of that complain-is-the lowest proportion of how much business there in the country, not to mention the eternal financial privileges that are exclusive to its class and outside the rest of us. However, despite all, one understands that a production as essential to the trade and that often depends on unstable factors such as weather or disease, have some comprehensive benefits and some extra consideration. But is the role of exportable production, not necessarily mean that "we give them food."
No, oligarchs caracagadas with the intelligence of a cow slaughtered. I understand that culearse nonhuman mammals both ends affect the perception of things, but you do not feed me, nor I, nor my family nor my friends outside the livestock, or 99.8% of the Uruguayans. I eat because I get up and go to laburar all fucking day to collect my salary fucking me fucking discounted all taxes and interest you jumping jopean bump in bump in the 4 X 4. I have a computer because they pay me the weight to weight with my salary that you do not provide a penny micron and because I occupy my place in a society in which each function is a gear that allows badly, I have my computer children go to school and familares of farmers do not seem to capybaras. This paternalism
considered essential because they coincidentally were at the beginning of the chain of exports is one of the most offensive of the national capitalist landlordism. That culture patroncito entitled to bolt makes resist further unionization of rural workers, as though it were a privilege, under which "there are days that do not work eight hours." Or that they resist as wild dogs with the intention of setting fetched for laborers a minimum wage of about $ 100 a month.
The reasoning is so stupid that only can be explained by hypertrophy of the right of property, considered a sort of divine right in today's society. It really seems that this people think the rest of the socieadad as a sort of blood sucking parasites that can suck in their cows living in their fields, never overplaying his mind that perhaps the privileged enjoyment media production a country have to be matched with some socialization benefits. Or that those benefits need not be granted so funny when they happen they are giving him a pat on the head to doctors who keep them alive or teachers who teach them to wipe your ass.
That is the problem of spending more than thirty years without having heard the terrible words of "land reform." ***
Times change and supplement the Vayven The Observer decided to hire a real male. Among so many butterfly walk around complaining lyrically, to Rodrigo Guillenea , regular columnist Vayven, likes to show in its Machaze column (which carries the name handsome Fuiyvolví ) having two eggs as big and Puritanism Journal of Sexual Peirano is quite flexible when confronted a male.
necessarily in the issue dedicated to the infamous Night of Nostalgia , bald Guillenea scratches caused by excessive testosterone and make your list of things that I have nostalgia. Male things, of course, among which are the most slut Madonna, Bud Spencer and Bruce Lee the Tinelli fucks that the dancers ... a macho manly list so as to afford to treat Jet Li of metrosexual (literally) ... male nostalgia, not ABBA dancer, if they had no clear, written in prose as a stallion man nobody would doubt their heterosexuality even if I filmed Felando sailors in Independence Square.
But to me, as a reader reminds me, I have my tendency also machismo and virility of the traditional liturgy, Guillenea kills me and makes me a ballet dancer with the eighth point of nostalgia, which I reproduce in full: " goalkeeper Bowling: The real was the earlier, if punch drunk you were entering heads-up and over, if you were earning, fell free forever. It is enough to bar bouncers, effeminate and amphetamines, that you feel you fight against a great bottle of steroids. "
columnist Miro photo illustrating the note, and despite the beanie (below which looks and intimidating Guillenea camera) I think it has more or less my age, which would be logical because we share the framework. But "Punches to win the right to free admission to the clubs, filling the fingers face the doormen? Shit ... mucho macho! , in my neighborhood were not so male!, When we punched a porter, we fell to the ground and sangrábamos, and occasionally wept as cupcakes! Not much else! Never met anyone who employ the system to become VIP Guillenea! Able but that differentiates males from machomenos! Male ...! And man who does not cease to be by age, and suggesting that paragraph, is now herding bouncers, bar-like Steven Seagal in a tavern! And one that grabs Observer churrete for not knowing that their columnists paid tickets to the clubs to punch clear! Wild times ... those times!
Now, I am surprised that the list has been fried also some nonsense in those days were men, not Astroboys and danisumpis, Rodrigo, are you not you have nostalgia for the era in which, when police dare to stand in the street, beaten to a shit what your own club and then stole the car for snacks along the Rambla with its siren blaring ..? Or when instead of bringing the girls dance enlazábamos our gigantic gourds, long working as an elephant's trunk, and dragged to the dark area of \u200b\u200bthe pub where we attended for five? Or when there were dj's and fags that ilk and danced to the rhythm of beating drums we did the bones of our dead enemies ...? That was a time of males! Geez, what nostalgia ...! ***
My friend Ivan NYC brings me a book he did not know but it was clear that I would like it. This is A Drink With Shane MacGowan , a kind of autobiography about the god of drunken singers is the transcription of several MacGowan talks with his girlfriend for decades, journalist Victoria Mary Clarke . Apparently the idea was to collect material for Clarke wrote a biography as such, but I liked the format of the transcripts, which are somewhere between the interview itself and talk naughty couple, "and decided to publish it as well.
For people who are guided by appearances the book can be a surprise, because although there are many epic stories of excess and quilombos formidable, the Shane MacGowan that emerges from the book is not the beast intoxicated that his public persona suggests composer but a highly cultured, able to converse naturally from James Joyce to Al Green, who has a interesting political vision on the world and love to the core of the cultural tradition of his country, known as the bottom of his glass. A libertarian, a bohemian wild and rebellious but that also has no problem in disclosing his infinite love for his family (something like that unexpectedly revealed in his autobiography the other great Irish punk, John Lydon ), its wife and friends. In fact these qualities are not so surprising for those who have examined the wealth of texts and romantic deep humanity underneath their rotten teeth, drunk voice terminal.
There, in dialogues with his wife, a remarkable serenity that comes of someone who has not been quiet. There are hilarious stories that are like the tip of the iceberg of poly-addictions MacGowan (for example one learns that one of the reasons for the Irish was devastated teeth that broke several teeth when an LSD trip he took to eat a copy of Pet Sounds of Beach Boys) and much wisdom to bar. In fact, MacGowan has an interesting opinion is that the bar drunk are much more educated people than you think because, unlike other addicts and workaholics or addicted to much social family-interralacionan information and exchange views with other people much more often that most modern men. Something
illustrator MacGowan on the head is in the photos illustrating the book there is no with or Pogues Popes . No, the kind reserved that space for photos with friends, his girlfriend, her family (can you believe that man's mother was so astonishingly ugly model, and that his sister is beautiful?) And places he likes.
There is only one photo directly related to the Pogues and which illustrates the simple cover of "Rainy Night in Soho ." The reason is obvious in the photo are he and Victoria Mary Clarke, with whom he started dating MacGowan was little and for whom the song was written. 'Rainy Night in Soho', unfortunately not included in any of the original LPs of the Pogues, is one of the most beautiful songs that MacGowan has written perhaps the most beautiful of all. I hear for the umpteenth time as I write this, it's long, epic, and each verse is written from the heart in his hand. A song that celebrates love while warning that the world around falls into hell. A song that ends with a huge statement: " And you're the measure of my dreams ."
"You're far dream." Sensitive girls who read this blog, if any honest voice tells once you are the measure of his dreams, encámense with him even as bad as Shane MacGowan. Because there is one thing a man says lightly.
also possibly Pogues fan or reader of this blog, good reasons to rescue him from the sea of \u200b\u200bidiots. ***
The news went around the world and got irritated in final form: in England are, at the request of some "concerned parents" - considering modifying several cartoon Tom & Jerry in which they appear smoking for children without such bad influence. Great, you have a cat and mouse imaginary and fantastic living blowing one another, throwing axes and knives, cutting himself in every possible way and with the greatest cruelty imaginable, and what you think of is to delete the scenes in which the mouse or the cat appear to enjoy a cigarette, making the health hysteria not only operate on the representations of present and future, but also begin the task of modifying the Stalinist past. Terrific, a great example of smart precaution. I am sure that all smokers smoke began to aspire to look like a mouse drawn.
You know what? While this may be something minor, was for me the point that exceeded what was already intolerable. Already, we know of question and that's enough. Small shit cowards, infected and dirty cops health, self-capadas sheep and devotees of the corral, we know that is what you want: to impose a system of imbecility in the world that the only differential value of good and evil is the self-preservation and fear of failure to follow instructions. These instructions given by you from their small towers buchoneo institutionalized. Stinking garbage with the dirty mind as to censor the cat and mouse game we grew arms, lambeguascas hipcondríacos, servants of Mammon, kissing suppository, Dictators nursing subhuman sterile plastic coated, enough already.
The smokers and lovers of various forms-healthy or unhealthy-adult and voluntary intoxication we need not take it anymore its fascist pseudo-philanthropic and continuing discrimination supported by the fist servile state.
But if the game is to discriminate, well, then discriminate. Will not you share this cup of wine with me, ignoring my offer of disinhibition and moderate lowering of defenses and alcohol socialization? Then out of my fucking house, paranoid person. Are you going to stand there in the face, bitter, controlling, and who knows but mentally-watching and recording our meeting drogadísima musical? Kick sunrise and out into the street ranger. Want to turn off silk cigarette my nerves, it keeps me thin and makes me look as cool as Marlene Dietrich? Then I'm going to put on the forehead, wannabe fireman . You think you're allowed to comment about my sex life and their risks? Someone comes along and take this clinical paparazzi who does not respect the privacy of my parts. Are you doing gymnastics in my neighborhood parks, offending my nose with the fetid smell of your sweat and lack of elegance in your clothes? He began to run because the dog loose. And so on. Self-defense and answer plain and simple. Fire with fire.
Feeling of guilt, ingrained over the years by the propagandists of the fear of death, those who have established a false identity between length and quality of life, has weakened and become resigned to the sad bon vivants, who know that the Grim Reaper going up to the group, either in this or the next stop, and those who love the intensity of the decisions are not convenient, the few unselfish decisions that differentiate us from the animals in a positive sense.
learners buttons, domestic dictators tiny, tiny and timid creatures, we are running hard way for years, uploaded to our own fault and our desire for non-intervention in private lives. That can not be, can not be more powerful one so cowardly to be afraid of something as innocuous and intangible as secondhand smoke. These pigs so emboldened that intend to decide what can be done in our bars, our community centers and our bodies. No, dwarves: Down hypochondria, Viva la Muerte. Remember the advice
perfect great Primo Levi , who said after leaving Auschwitz, " If I could filter a message from the lager (concentration camp) would have been this: do not let that make you in your home as we did in here. "
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